Sunny Afternoon
by milverton
Summary: Sherlock, John, Molly, Greg and Mike go to the beach for John's birthday.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock positively _loathes_ the idea of sitting uselessly underneath the scalding sun and the possibility of being subjected to the invasion of irritating families and groups of teenagers into his personal space.

But, he will sit uselessly underneath the sun and expose himself to people-irritation because John wants to go to the dreadful place in which this all occurs.

The beach.

For his birthday.

It's not that Sherlock particularly cares about birthdays. After returning from the "Great Hiatus," as the papers so lovingly called it, Sherlock felt that he owed John for putting him through so much anguish (so, so much anguish. Sherlock had not expected John to react so strongly to his…"death").

Sherlock may not care about birthdays, but he has decided he cares about John's birthday. John had said he had not gone to a beach since his Uni days and thought it'd be "relaxing" and "a nice change of scenery." Sherlock doesn't really think it'll be relaxing but he doesn't say so.

John, ever the social butterfly, thought it would be brilliant to invite everyone he knows. He was invite-happy and asked 10 people to come, but it was only Mike, Molly, and Le-Greg (Sherlock is just getting used to calling him that) who had RSVP'd in the positive.

Sherlock is thrilled it turned out to be a small group, because it means more room for his surprise gift. He'd already texted Mike, Molly and Greg to put them in the know.

As they are gearing up to leave, Sherlock starts casually, "John."

"Hm?" John says mindlessly, tucking a large, flamboyant tube of sunscreen into his crowded duffel bag. He rummages through his belongings, undoubtedly checking, rechecking for the umpteenth time that he has everything he needs. Typical John.

"I, um, got you something." (It was actually Mycroft's money who had gotten John something).

John stops his needless browsing and looks up at Sherlock softly, inquisitively. "Yeah?"

"It's not here. It's at the beach." Sherlock lets a moment of silence pass, just to be an asshole. "We're going to stay overnight in a beach house."

John gapes. "You…bought a beach house."

"_Rented _a beach house," Sherlock corrects. "Just for the night. There's enough room for the five of us."

John looks impressed and a bit overwhelmed. "Sherlock…I. Don't know what to say. That's brilliant. Thank you." John springs up out of his seat. He looks awkward for a moment, deciding between a handshake or an embrace, and decides on the embrace. John roughly takes hold of Sherlock and squeezes the life out of him (John has been working out incessantly lately and Sherlock hasn't quite fully gained back his weight nor his strength) then pulls away with a bright smile. Sherlock smiles back.

"I'll just throw a couple more things in my bag then we'll be off, yeah?"

Sherlock watches John dart excitedly up the stairs two steps at a time and he finds himself still smiling.

\\

They borrow one of Mycroft's vans for the two hour trip. Sherlock ends up driving because, apparently, he likes John too much for his own good and actually wants the man to sit back, relax and enjoy his _birthday_. Since when did Sherlock care about_ birthdays_? It's absurd. Sherlock is truly doing an admirable job keeping his bitching to the minimum these days (for John only) and he hopes it can last through the time they spend at the beach. That will surely be a testament to his willpower.

Sherlock picks up Mike first, then Greg. Mike is a big man—he's grown even larger over the years—and there is no way Molly could sit comfortably in the backseat between the two men, so they decide to place her in the boot of the car (which is very spacious and hopefully semi-comfortable). She doesn't protest so Sherlock thinks it'll be just fine. John thinks otherwise and voices his apologies to Molly and his disappointment with Sherlock for not getting a bigger car.

Sherlock cannot please _everyone._

The car ride is filled with somewhat admittedly interesting stories about murder (Greg), boring family reminiscences (Mike), a feminist rant about new Hollywood films (Sherlock has already forgotten the titles) (Molly), and absolutely terrible jokes (John) that has the entire car except for Sherlock choking with laughter. Sherlock doesn't really engage himself in any of the not-quite-riveting conversations (though, he does make snide remarks at some points because he feels left out) and enjoys the Paganini that wafts softly from the car stereo.

"Sherlock, you're uncharacteristically quiet," Greg observes an hour into the trip. Greg seems to have forgotten those snide remarks. Sherlock rolls his eyes even though no one has the pleasure to see him do it.

"Well, do you have anything interesting to talk about?" Sherlock snaps. Greg doesn't say anything. Mike snorts to fill the silence. Sherlock always did like him. "That's what I thought." Greg murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like "bloody prick" but he ignores it.

"Can we, um, you know. Put on something a little more…upbeat?" Molly asks. Sherlock snarls, offended.

"Caprice No. 24 is rather—"

"I mean, like. Something that's not…a violin piece." The car chortles in unison.

"Your loss," Sherlock huffs. John manhandles Sherlock's Ipod and browses through it.

"…really?" John huffs out amusedly.

"What?" Sherlock asks, looking over briefly at John then snapping attention back to the road.

"You like The Kinks."

"So?" Sherlock says defensively.

"I damn well_ love_ The Kinks."

Sherlock smirks as John presses play and turns the volume up, startlingly high and it begins— _the tax man's taken all my dough, and left me in my stately home. _The song brings back a flood of not unpleasant memories for Sherlock and makes more not unpleasant memories when he hears John singing along (badly) to the song. Sherlock's fingers are tapping the steering wheel to the beat.

John's singing his heart out and it's so bad but so endearing and Sherlock can't help but join in on the "_save me, save me, save me from this squeeze. I got a big fat mama trying to break me—"_ and then they laugh and Sherlock feels a bubble of warmth blow up in his chest and remain.

When the song ends, the bubble pops and Sherlock suddenly remembers they are in a steel box with three other people. From the corner of his eye he can see John glowing, the singing having a kind of post-coital effect. Sherlock is grinning like a loon and it hurts to smile so much, he's never smiled so much before he met John, but he can't stop.

The rest of the car ride is a blur of boring conversation, though, Sherlock cracks a smile at one of John's jokes.

When they finally arrive, Sherlock has never been happier to see a beach in his life.

\\

The beach is painfully crowded and the sand burns Sherlock's feet and the sun is already beating down too hard on his back. They find an empty spot close to the water to set up camp. Mike has brought a massive umbrella for everyone to sit under but Greg opts out in favour of getting a tan.

Molly watches Greg remove his shirt and set out his towel with interest. She announces shakily she'd like to get a tan as well and sets up a towel right beside Greg. Sherlock has never seen her tan, ever. She removes her lurid pink sundress and Sunday hat to expose a skimpy, pink, string bikini with yellow daffodils placed in very strategic positions on the top and bottom pieces. Sherlock watches with amusement as Greg unsubtly pick up his jaw from the floor.

Sherlock hopes the two of them will realise the explosive sexual tension between each other sometime soon. And, secretly, Sherlock's glad Molly's moved on from having feelings for him because Greg is a much healthier person to lust after.

Sherlock does not wish to ruin his skin so he puts on sunglasses, keeps on his shirt and and sits cross-legged underneath the umbrella. He feels ridiculous and he's already bored so he decides to watch John do whatever he's about to do.

John sets up his towel between Sherlock and Greg, half under the umbrella, half not. Then John's pulling his shirt over his head, revealing hard pecs, a well-defined stomach, and streaks of glistening sweat. Luckily, no one can tell he is looking so Sherlock looks some more.

There's a low, appreciative whistle and Sherlock wonders whose been reading his mind. "Oi, mate. Been working out?" Mike says from his lazy position in his portable beach chair.

"Yeah, a bit," John says and he's blushing. A grown man, blushing.

"Definitely shows," Greg says while John says, "Cheers." Molly's smiling and nodding in agreement. "Whatever. I'm proud of my one-pack." Greg pats his beer belly. The divorce had hit him hard. Everyone laughs at him (Sherlock snickers).

John pulls out the tube of flamboyant sunscreen. "Sunscreen? Anyone? I may have to take drastic measures if any of you refuse." Always the doctor.

Everyone mutters their excuses—they all applied it before, excuse, excuse. Sherlock hopes John forgets about him, just this once.

"Sherlock, I know you didn't put any on."

"I'm not going to be in the sun."

"You might decide you want to. Just put some on in case."

"No," Sherlock says petulantly.

"Sherlock," John warns and he's already approaching Sherlock. Sherlock hugs himself as if that will make John go away.

"Jooohn, I hate it," Sherlock whinges, rocking.

"Take off your shirt. Come on, don't be a baby."

Sherlock sighs, takes off his shirt, hunches over and crosses his arms. He cringes at the first touch of the cold cream. John's hands are rough and strong and hot against his skin and Sherlock closes his eyes blissfully, suddenly forgetting how much he hates the sticky feeling of sunscren. John slowly rubs the cream from Sherlock's shoulder blades down to the curve of his back, up the crescent dips of his waist, up his neck, over the mountains of his shoulders. Sherlock could have easily done his shoulders but he is very much enjoying John doing his shoulders.

Then John's hands are on Sherlock's creamy white thighs and Sherlock can definitely do his own thighs but John's insisting so Sherlock lets him. He's rubbing small circles into Sherlock's thighs as if he's forgotten what he's supposed to do. Sherlock can feel John breathing onto his neck, he's so close.

Sherlock feels terribly bereft when John finishes. "All right. You do the rest, princess" John says good-humouredly and places the sunscreen carefully into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock looks over to see Molly staring at him curiously.

Sherlock mouths "what?" and she just smiles and turns onto her stomach. Sherlock reluctantly puts sunscreen on his chest, face, arms and legs because John's watching him like a hawk.

\\

Mike and Molly go to a little sandwich shop on the boardwalk and return with five sandwiches for everyone. Sherlock takes two bites of his not-horrid ham sandwich and, bored, watches John('s neck) as he eats his sandwich, practically engulfing it like he hadn't eaten for days. He leaves a bit of mustard on his chin when he's done. Sherlock licks his lips.

Sherlock reaches over, without any preamble, and swipes the mustard away. John looks at him like he's crazy. "You had some mustard there," Sherlock says dumbly.

"Oh." John blinks. "Thanks."

Sherlock lies on his back and closes his eyes, satisfied.

\\

Sherlock's wakes up to loud, Italian voices. There's a large Italian family who've made their home next to Mike and they're in a seemingly heated debate. Sherlock knows a little bit of Italian (some Spanish, and all of French, too) and it sounds like they're arguing about a niece's marriage which they disapprove of. There are a lot of curse words involved.

He sees that Mike and Greg have followed suit and are in deep sleep (Sherlock doesn't know how this environment is relaxing in the slightest). Greg's going to be very dark on his back if he keeps that up.

John and Molly are nowhere to be found. Sherlock pushes himself up and sees John's head bobbing in the water and Molly picking up some seashells on the shore. Sherlock's bored so he gets up to join Molly and instantly regrets it the moment the sun hits him.

"Have a nice kip?" she asks.

"Not particularly," he says, brushing sand off his shoulders.

"Oh." She frowns. Her face is so expressive, just like John's. "Sorry. Walk with me?" She urges as she starts down the shore. Sherlock follows, avoiding stepping on washed-up seaweed or trash.

A Golden Retriever runs by them and Molly smiles at it as it barks and skips jubilantly into the water. Its owner runs in after it. "This was really nice of you to do, you know. I mean, I'm having a great time and I think John is too. And the beach house! That's too lovely. Can't wait to see it."

"I'm merely doing what John wanted to do."

"He asked for a beach house?"

Sherlock's mouth twitches. "…no."

Molly giggles. "It's nice to see you appreciate John. Really."

Sherlock frowns and looks to the ocean just as a breeze rolls by and coats his skin, hair, clothes. It's a glorious two seconds. "This isn't even scratching the surface of what John deserves in repayment for what I did to him."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly says passionately, placing a clammy hand on his arm. "You did that for his sake. You need to stop beating yourself up about it." Molly and Sherlock had gotten very close ever since the Fall. She'd helped him pull it off, after all. She and Mycroft were the only ones who'd known he was still alive so Sherlock sometimes infiltrated Molly's flat and she'd feed him tea and a meal. He owes Molly.

Molly opens her palm and strokes the ridges of a tiny, brown seashell. "I think he's over it. He cares about you _too much_ to not be over it…you know?" Molly's staring at him expectantly. He knows what she's implying. She'd tried this with him during the Hiatus, tried to convince Sherlock that John _wants_ him, not as _just a friend_, but Sherlock, oddly enough, still finds it to be an extremely stupid assumption for_ certain_ reasons.

"You're wrong."

"What?" she says, faux-confused.

"You always do this."

"But you—"

"I'm not getting into this again. You're wrong. End of story. _Fin_."

Molly gives up her protestations and grins. "Were you not present earlier when he applied that sunscreen? Uh, I'm pretty sure you were one of the parties participating in that stunt. Jeez, Sherlock, he was _all over you_ and—"

"Are you sure you're not compensating for the seething sexual tension that exists between you and Greg?"

Molly's eyes widen and she blushes. "I don't know what you mean…"

Sherlock snorts. "Oh, please."

"Gosh. I don't understand you, Sherlock. You see everything but you don't see this."

"You're changing the subject."

"So are you!"

Sherlock sighs long-sufferingly and says one word, "Mary."

Molly steps in front of Sherlock, halting him abruptly. Sherlock wrinkles his nose at her in distaste. She plops down onto the disgustingly wet sand. "Sit."

"On the wet sand? No thanks."

"…don't be such a priss," Molly says and pulls Sherlock down. She has more strength than he'd have thought. The water ebbs and flows and Sherlock's bum is completely wet. It's uncomfortable.

"You said Mary."

Here it goes. "Glad your faculties of hearing are in check," Sherlock says snappishly.

"Do you know why John was engaged to Mary?"

"Because he _loved _her. Or maybe he just wanted the legal benefits of marriage. John is a practical man, after all."

Molly rolls her eyes. "Because he needed a distraction."

"That's a fairly big distraction."

"It needs to be 'fairly big distraction' when it comes to being distracted from you."

Sherlock looks down at his boney knees. "He was engaged to a woman. It meant obviously that he did not have feelings for me. Ever."

"Well he's not with her anymore, is he?" Molly growls. Sherlock looks down his nose at her. "You're an idiot, sometimes, you know," Molly says, shaking her head. A wave soaks Sherlock's bum yet again and he squirms. "He thought you were dead, Sherlock. He wasn't going to end up like Miss Havisham, just waiting for years and years until you rose from the dead and swept him off his feet." Sherlock doesn't know who Miss Havisham is. The sun is really starting to irritate him and his skin and he wishes it'd be nighttime, already. Wants to go to the beach house. He's just really sick of the beach. "Do you understand? He had no other choice but to move on."

"Sherlock! Molly!" It's John calling them over, thank god. He's very much done with Molly's lectures. Sherlock turns and sees John holding up ice cream over his head from all the way down the shore. The ice cream drips onto his chest and he laughs at himself. Sherlock smirks.

"Shall we?" Sherlock says, eyes narrowed, to Molly, gets up, cringes as he wipes the clay-like sand off his arse and strides toward John.

* * *

I needed to take a break from finals stuff so here we have fluff, pre-slash, and post-Reichenbach fic. Hooray. Sorry if this is too long-winded. I promise things at the beach house will be a bit more exciting. I will try to get up the next chapter soon.

Thanks!

**Fun fact: **Canon!John Watson's birthday is assumed to be July 7th, 1852**. **


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's handed a vanilla ice cream and he takes three licks of it before throwing it onto the sand and burying the evidence.

"How are you even alive?" Greg comments, catching Sherlock in the act.

Sherlock glares at him. "I eat enough to sustain myself."

"Just to sustain yourself? You're missing out on the joys of food."

Sherlock eyes Greg's stomach. "I can see that."

"Girls, girls," John scolds cheerily. Greg takes a nice, long lick of the ice cream as if he's spiting Sherlock. He's just making Sherlock nauseous.

Suddenly, a petite woman comes out of nowhere and runs over Sherlock's and John's towels without any remorse, getting sand everywhere. "Laura! Laura, oh my baby! Laura!" she cries.

"Excuse you," Sherlock scowls. He looks up at the woman and she's holding a dirty, dilapidated-looking teddy bear. He instantly puts two and two together and stands up. "You've lost your daughter," Sherlock states. Sherlock looks the woman up and down, cataloging.

"Yes, my baby's gone I turned my back for one second and she was gone," the woman begins to sob, "I don't know what to do no one is helping me, what if she was kidnapped, I can't find the beach patrol, please, sir—"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Greg cuts in, annoyingly brandishing his badge in front of the frantic mother's face. "Where did you last see your daughter?"

The woman sniffs dramatically. Her hands are shaking as she says, "Oh thank you, sir, thank you she was—"

"She has wet sand caked onto her heel, she was on the shore. There is a singular rock weighing down the right pocket of her jumper and she's holding a dirty, sandy bear. Laura was collecting rocks, gave one to her mother, dropped her teddy bear and when her mother bent to pick it up, Laura was gone."

Sherlock jogs to where he saw the mother come from on the shore and crouches down to see light imprints of tiny feet disappear from the shore onto the dry sand. He remains there for a moment, approximating little Laura's height, takes in a 360 degree view of the world from that height, asks himself what would catch a child's interest so? and notices, through the umbrellas and towels and people, a large dug-up hole in the far distance. He weaves carelessly through the umbrellas, towels and people (who shout unfriendly things at him) until he's standing above a deep hole where three children reside, decorating the walls of their pit with various shore rocks.

Six eyes look up at Sherlock's towering form in awe. One child, the boy, says, "Woah."

"Laura," Sherlock states, not questions.

"What?" the cherub-faced blonde girl says.

Sherlock's mouth quirks in satisfaction. "Your mother is looking for you." Sherlock crouches down and holds out his hand for her.

"Oh," is all Laura says as she takes Sherlock's hand. Sherlock pulls her out of the hole, she waves good bye to her new friends, and she holds Sherlock's hand as they make their way back to her mother.

"Laura, my baby!" the mother screeches, running to her child and smothering her with kisses. She wipes her eyes. Sherlock looks smugly at Greg, who looks positively irritated. "Never, ever, ever do that again."

"Okay," Laura concedes.

The mother calms herself down and holds out her hand to Sherlock. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much." Sherlock quickly gives her hand a shake. She turns to Laura. "Baby. Say thank you to the nice man."

"Thank you to the nice man," Laura says, gaping up at Sherlock. "You look like a ghost," she observes.

The mother laughs nervously. "Er, I'm sorry," she says to Sherlock.

"Not a problem," Sherlock says, giving his best fake smile.

The mother and Laura leave (Laura shouts 'Bye ghosty man!' to Sherlock as she goes). Sherlock returns to his towel. Everyone's staring at him. "What?"

"Show off," Greg grumbles.

"That was wonderful, Sherlock," Molly beams.

"Nicely done, mate," Mike agrees. It was such a simple task; he doesn't understand why they are so amazed. They've seen him do many other more spectacular things.

Sherlock looks at John, who is actually…is he teary-eyed? John coughs and "itches" the corner of his eyes, trying to play it cool, but Sherlock's already seen it all.

John reaches out and places his hand atop Sherlock's. Sherlock stares down at both of their hands, perplexed. "That was really brilliant of you." Sherlock blinks and slowly turns his hand palm-up so that they can entwine their fingers together. Sherlock's heart is thrumming in his chest. John squeezes. They remain like that, staring at each other for god knows how long and Sherlock forgets where he is, who he's with.

Except for John.

\\

The next few hours go by quickly and before Sherlock knows it sky is darkening and the sun is setting (Sherlock hasn't seen stars in years no thanks to London and its overabundant pollution) and the air is cool. Sherlock looks at his mobile. It's late. Mike complains that he's hungry. Greg and Molly and John agree. So they pack up their things and go.

Sherlock whips out his mobile and types in the address of the beach house (it's only a ten minute walk), then texts a certain person who'll certainly be a very welcome surprise.

\\

The house is plain, white, and cosy-looking from the outside. Everything on the inside is made out of glossy wood and the rooms are unnecessarily spacious for just the five of them.

Sherlock gives a quick tour. He shows everyone the three bedrooms upstairs, the bathroom with a shower upstairs, then moves downstairs to the sitting room, another bathroom with a shower downstairs, and the backyard (which is literally the beach). People claim their bedrooms, take showers and change clothes. Sherlock tells them to meet him in the dining room for dinner when they're done.

A poised elderly man wearing a fine suit enters and greets them all with a bow. Before anyone can ask stupid questions Sherlock steps forward and introduces the stranger. "This is Sir Ethan Reynolds. He is one of this country's finest chefs, shipped here from London. He's going to be cooking for us tonight."

"Pleasure," Reynolds says, the words rolling off his tongue with grace.

"Fantastic!" Mike says, sitting himself down at the table. Molly and Greg follow him.

John pulls Sherlock to the side and says conspiratorially, "You're too much. This is too much for me."

"No. It's not_ enough_ for you," Sherlock says plainly, motioning chivalrously to the table. John stares at him for a brief moment then moves forward and sits down. He's still staring at Sherlock.

"I have created a very special menu just for you," Reynolds announces proudly, handing out the menus and lighting the candles on the table. It creates a soft, red glow. Mike and John order the simmered foie gras, Molly the turbot en matelote, Greg the roquefortin lamb, and Sherlock the roasted sea scallops.

The foods arrives and is delicious, even Sherlock will admit. For dessert they get a simple gateau au chocolat (John's favourite, of course). Sherlock dismisses Reynolds before they proceed with the festivities.

Molly insists on putting in candles (only four, to represent forty) and lighting them up. Sherlock thinks it's cheesy but they do it anyway, plunge the dining room into darkness. Molly starts singing, "Happy Birthday." Everyone joins in while Sherlock sings it in French in his head.

John looks extremely pleased and blows out the candles and everyone whoops and claps. Greg prods John about his 'wish' but John says it won't come true if he tells him.

John holds up his glass of very expensive red wine after they'd distributed the cake pieces and says heartily, "Thank you, guys, for everything today. Really."

"Thank Sherlock, mate. We'd nothing to do with all of this," Mike says, motioning absently to the room, trying to indicate the entirety of the house, probably.

John looks affectionately at Sherlock. Sherlock is trying very hard to suppress his own affectionate look back at John. It was not an easy task at all. He is slipping. He hopes nothing shows. "Thank you, Sherlock. You're lovely. I don't think people tell you that enough."

"It was nothing," Sherlock says and, damn, he feels a blush creep up his neck.

"This has been one of my favourite birthdays that's for sure. You know why?" John continues looking at Sherlock, a small smile tattooed on his lips. "Because of the fantastic company. Here's to friends."

"Here, here!" Mike shouts. "Salud," Molly says. "Cheers," Greg adds. They all clink glasses.

Greg chugs down all the wine in one gulp, slams down the glass and says, "Okay, time for round two!"

\\

It was more like round seven.

Reynolds had left eight bottles of wine and Greg, of course, finds them and pours and pours and pours, drinks glass after glass after glass. Molly does the same. Forty minutes later, Molly's straddling Greg's lap and they're kissing and giggling (mainly Molly) on the leather sofa in the sitting room.

Mike, Sherlock and John are playing Crazy Eights on the floor of the sitting room. Mike takes a sip of wine, looks back at Molly and Greg eating each others' faces and deadpans to John and Sherlock, "I'm so shocked. I just never saw this coming."

John chuckles. Sherlock snickers. "I don't get how they're still hungry after all that food we ate," John deadpans right back.

"Greg, we shouldn't—hee hee, ooooh," Greg's hand has disappeared up Molly's tanktop "—we shouldn't, it's, it's rude in front of—"

"Shh, lovey. They don't care," Greg slurs, silencing Molly with a messy kiss. His hand begins to unzip her jeans so Sherlock interrupts because he'd rather not watch his friends have sex right in front of him.

"Actually, we do care. Very much, in fact. There are three bedrooms down here and three upstairs. Why don't you two make use of one of them?" he says icily.

Molly and Greg burst into laughter. Greg licks his lips and doesn't take his eyes off Molly. "Fi-fine, Sherrrrrrlock, goodidea," Greg says, hoisting Molly up. He stumbles and catches himself on the sidetable. Molly laughs. Greg laughs. Sherlock sees Greg pinch Molly's arse and he wishes they would get out of his sight already. They laugh all the way down the hall and slam a door behind them.

Sherlock turns on his Ipod dock, and they listen to classic rock and classical music for two hours straight. It's actually fun. Sherlock's actually having fun. John and Sherlock sing along to The Kinks songs that turn up. _Victoooooooriaaaa_. Sherlock recites the notes aloud along with some of the Caprices, which he'd memorised as a child and still remembers to this day. Mike and John are astonished. Sherlock's smug.

Sherlock and John tell Mike about some of the mental things that's happened to them on cases. Mike is disturbed at some points, and amused at others.

Sherlock turns the volume louder when he's able to hear unsavoury noises from Molly and Greg's room.

Mike, John and Sherlock play Crazy Eights until 11:30, taking breaks only to get more wine or use the loo. Mike yawns and throws his deck down.

"I'm done, mates. I'm absolutely knackered." Mike stands up with great effort. "G'night you two," he winks," Happy Birthday again, John. Was great fun. Great fun." He hobbles up the stairs and Sherlock waits until he can hear the door slam until he speaks.

"Outside?"

"Yeah," John agrees.

\\

The temperature's dropped substantially so they put on jumpers and stand side-by-side, shoulders touching and their arms hanging over the back porch's barrier, hands clasping their wine glasses. The beach is deserted and looks boundless and Sherlock finds himself liking the place much, much more now. Sherlock closes his eyes, the calming sound of the waves pervading his non-thoughts. Non-thoughts. It's amazing that he actually isn't thinking, having his mind reeling, for a change.

When he opens his eyes, he can _feel _John staring at him.

"I hope you found this trip as relaxing as I did," John begins. "Sometimes you just need to shut down. Be mindless. Christ, probably more than I do. Definitely more than I do." It's as if John can read his mind. "This was probably a great holiday for your mind."

"It was," Sherlock admits.

A moment of silence. "This meant a lot to me, you know," John says quietly. John's already told him plenty of times that he appreciated all of this. Sherlock still stands firmly in his opinion that it's not enough.

It'll never be enough.

Sherlock turns his neck elegantly to look at John. John turns bodily toward Sherlock and moves a bit closer, if possible. They were already so close before. Sherlock can hear his heart pounding over the sound of the waves. John is placing his wine glass onto the ledge of the porch. John is touching Sherlock's cheek. Since when? Sherlock didn't even see John's hand move. John's running the back of his finger over Sherlock's left cheekbone reverently, then running it across Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock places his wine glass down on the ledge as well. Sherlock turns bodily toward John, bends down ever-so-slightly. John's blue eyes are illuminated in the moonlight. Sherlock can see the moon in John's eyes. Sherlock can see everything he's ever wanted in John's eyes.

Time slows as John's lips meet Sherlock's. Sherlock is soaring. Molly had been right. John tastes like wine and _John._ Soon there are strong arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him close and they're still kissing until they're breathless. They pull apart, and press their foreheads together. John does not remove his arms from Sherlock's waist.

"Well. You're a surprisingly good kisser," John says. Sherlock chuckles. "Shall we take this inside, then? Continue the celebrations?" John cranes his neck and presses a kiss to Sherlock's chin, then his neck.

Sherlock leans down to kiss John, again, on the lips. He meant for it to be quick, but it ends up with John's tongue thrust in Sherlock's mouth and an indulgent moan on Sherlock's part. He bends more, presses a kiss to John's neck and smiles into John's warm skin, and murmurs, "I think it's well past 12 am by now."

John laughs and Sherlock feels it. "After party, then."

"Upstairs or downstairs?"

"Downstairs. Don't want to wake up Mike."

"Oh. Right. Mike." Honestly, Sherlock had completely forgotten about Mike. Only John mattered. "How are you even_ considerate_ right now?"

"How are you so gorgeous?" John asks cheekily, looking up at Sherlock with stars in his eyes. Sherlock hadn't expected that and he waves it away. He's secretly flattered.

"Inside. Now," Sherlock demands.

"Yes, sir," John says, grabbing a handful of Sherlock's arse. He takes Sherlock's hand and pulls him inside.

* * *

Well. When I meant soon, I meant _soon._ Anyway. Looks like you know what's coming in the next chapter. That'll probably be the last one? Thanks for reading; hope you enjoyed this fluffy fluff overload.

Cheers.


End file.
